When she could see more clearly, the bullet holes looked almost small, manageable. Like someone poked Amelia with a small rod or pencil. But where there were holes, there had been bullets, and bullets could kill by tearing through skin and organs and bone. Ellie tossed the drenched gauze to her side. This was going to take more than bandages.
Amelia’s breathing went from shallow to struggling. Her throat strained with each pathetic breath, the golden M at her neck dancing with each attempt like it didn’t know its owner was dying beneath it. Ellie worked mechanically, anguish tearing at her throat and begging to be free. If she let even one tear fall, she would fail.
She ripped open a large abdominal bandage and pressed it hard against the wound in Amelia’s stomach and then checked to see if there was an exit wound on her back. No. Nothing. In one way it was good; exit wounds were at least twice as big as the entry, and she was already dealing with a lot of blood loss. But there was bad news too. No exit wound meant the bullet was still inside, doing who knew what kind of damage. Thankfully, the shoulder wound seemed to have gone clear through.
With one hand applying pressure and the other working fast, Ellie taped down the dressings on each injury, then placed a non-rebreather mask on her sister’s face and finally grabbed the IV kit to get a line started.
Just as Ellie finished tying the tourniquet and attached the IV bag to the needle and flushed the air out, footsteps stomped up the front steps. She glanced around, remembering the motionless man on the floor for the first time since she entered the room. He was dead, right? Had to be dead.
Someone pounded on the outside office door loudly. “Police. Open up!”
“It’s clear! Come in. Come quickly.” Thank God. Finally, help was there. Ellie put her hands up, her blue gloves covered in blood, the IV grasped in one of them.
The door to the office flew open, and two police officers in bulletproof vests entered the room, guns drawn.
“Medic over here. Two down, one DOA,” Ellie called to the officers. One of the men, the shorter of the two, leaned down and cautiously checked the masked man’s pulse while the other kept his gun pointed at Ellie.
“Keep your hands up,” he said in a low, firm voice. The needle in Ellie’s hand was shaking. She glanced down at her sister’s arm where she’d tied the tourniquet minutes earlier. The vein was ready. She needed to put the line in now.
“I . . . I’m in the middle of treating this patient.” She tried to keep her voice steady, professional. She had to sound confident if she was going to convince the police officers to let her continue working. “I need to get a line started. I’m going to put the IV in now.” Slowly lowering the hand holding the needle, she shifted her gaze from the officer to the arm lying in her lap. He didn’t yell or shoot, so he must’ve believed her.
“Yup, this one’s DOA,” the other officer called out to his partner. The voice was familiar.
A quick check over her shoulder confirmed it. Travis Rivera was making his way across the office, checking behind desks and chairs as though someone were going to pop out and shoot them. Maybe someone was, but right now all Ellie could think about was getting Amelia out.
“Trav, get Chet,” Ellie ordered, not even trying to be polite. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, but it fell right back in, this time sticking to the perspiration on her nose and cheek. “Tell him that I have a pulse but two gunshot wounds. I’ve started a line, but she needs to get into surgery, stat.”
“Brown?” Travis asked, lowering his gun a fraction. “What the hell are you doing in here? Chief Plackard is going to kill you.”
“Travis. Listen. Get Chet!” Ellie maneuvered the needle into the slightly bulging vein. After being tied off so long, it should’ve been nearly bursting. Just further evidence of how much blood Amelia had lost already. She slipped the needle out, catheter in, and shoved the sharp into the biohazard container inside her trauma kit.
“I have to check the rest of the house.” Travis lifted his gun a fraction and scanned the room, distracted. “Just call Chet on your radio.”
“I don’t have my radio.” Ellie put another piece of tape over the IV line coming out of Amelia’s arm and then swept her eyes over her unconscious, bleeding sister. “Damn it, Travis, this is my sister. Get Chet!”
She hated the emotion in her voice. But it was Amelia. There was no pretending about Amelia.
Travis froze in his tracks, his black, heavy-soled shoes stopping just short of the blood arcing out around the dead man on the floor.
“Oh, Ellie,” he said gently. She didn’t have to look; she could hear it in his voice—he could see that her sister was almost dead, couldn’t he? Ellie watched over her shoulder as Travis holstered his gun and retrieved his radio. “I’ll have one of the guys put him on.”
Ellie nodded, already starting to dress the less serious wound in Amelia’s shoulder. When she heard confirmation come over the radio that Chet was on his way in with a stretcher, she swallowed down the sob of relief building in her throat. There would be no crying today. Today her patient would make it to the hospital, make it through surgery, would go on to have a long, stunning life full of happiness. Today was the first time since returning home that she was glad to be a member of this tiny fire department instead of off at med school. Today she was glad she lived in Broadlands.
CHAPTER 8
AMELIA
Monday, April 4
Five weeks earlier
“Well, that was interesting.” Steve pulled a worn gray tee shirt over his head and let it fall over his midsection. He might not have a six-pack like he did in his firefighter days, but his stomach was still flat and firm.
“I think it was lovely.” Amelia leaned back into her wall of pillows, grabbing one that sat awkwardly behind her neck, and threw it at Steve before picking up the tented book on her lap. “Collin’s a nice kid. They’ve been dating forever, and he moved back here for her when Dad got sick. Commutes forever and ever just to be close to Ellie. And he’s gonna be a doctor for goodness’ sake. Give him a break.”
When Ellie stood and clinked her glass with a plastic fork at dinner, Amelia knew what was coming. She watched her sister closely, monitoring all her telltale “I’m faking it” signs. But there were no stiff smiles, no nervous twists of her ponytail, and the tears gathering in her sister’s eyes during the announcement seemed genuine.